Spartacus: Champion
by BluejayPrime
Summary: "In his ears, the chanting of the crowd still echoed, his name ascending into heavens out of a thousand throats, while his eyes fell shut again." It's said that before your death, your life passes in front of your eyes. In this case, it's the life of a champion.
1. Virgo

_**I**__'m going to die._

The boy's gaze was fixed on the iron bars, his face being petrified. Behind the bars, the crowd was cheering for the men upon the sand, or at least for one of them.

The other was a prisoner.

He was the tallest man the boy had ever seen, with long, dark hair worn in thick braids, thighs like the trunk of a tree and broad-shouldered.

Six men were already lying dead to his feet.

The boy held his breath, both hands clinging to the iron bars, when the seventh followed them, blood spattering from the stump where his head had been. The air was filled with screams and a heavy, metallic scent all too familiar to him, with cheers and a name he did not understand.

**N**ext to him, behind another set of bars, someone else was waiting.

He was about three or four years older than the boy himself, eighteen years maybe.

The cheers of the crowd caused no movement on his dark features at all; obsidian coloured eyes were fixed on the gladiators.

The boy gulped, quickly turning away his eyes.

Of course he was used to no one talking to him at all. No one liked talking to someone who already was as good as dead anyway, although basically everone in the ludus was; they didn't leave any doubts about how he was even more dead than others already, though.

"Don't die too quickly!" one of the others had hissed when they had left; one of the elder gladiators, Barcas, in his early twenties, easily recognizable through his long hair and sharp features, "Don't die too quickly, that'll spoil the day for them!"

He felt sick. Dark stains were dancing in front of his eyes, he was clinging the bars so hard his knuckles turned white.

His father had been a gladiator, too.

Of course he had never come to know him; his mother had told him, he had already died in the arena while she still had been pregnant. From what he knew, it had been an epic fight, because the crowd had still been chanting his name when he had long been dead already.

His hands were shaking; angrily, the boy clenched his fists.

As a child he had sometimes tried to imagine how his father might have looked like. It had never worked out, but he had always managed to imagine his last fight.

**O**utside upon the sands, the prisoner butchered his eight opponent.

Hoots of laughter were bursting out throughout the crowd, but the boy saw the prisoner's heavy breathing and the wounds covering his body already. It would be over soon.

"He fights with honor."

The dark-skinned boy's voice made him turn around.

"If he was a gladiator, he might win his freedom."

The boy pursuit his lips. "And then? What should a gladiator do with his freedom?"

Maybe his voice pinched a little higher than he wanted to; angrily he gritted his teeth again.

He was fourteen years old, the youngest gladiator of his ludus. The branding on his arm was only about three days old, his test had been a tie at its best, he was going to die, but at least he didn't want to wet himself in fear and have anyone drag him into the arena screaming like a toddler.

They hadn't even tried to make him think it would be a proper fight.

Violent uprisings in Thrace and Greece had made things difficult, and therefore it was good for the overall mood to slaughter some Greeks in the arena; unfortunately, he had been born on Crete and the romans did not exactly distinguish between Athenians and Spartanians and everything else…

His armor didn't really fit, his blades were blunt and he had never gotten used to a shield anyway.

He was going to die, and everyone knew it.

His opponent was a well-known gladiator whose name had been chanted by the crowd many times before almost as much as the name of the prisoner outside in front of the bars.

Of course, nobody knew the boy's own name; he had never been to the arena before.

**T**he prisoner's final moments seemed to have come.

They had sent in two men at the same time this time; obviously the crowd became tired.

The prisoner had gone down on one knee, one half of his face covered in blood. His opponent's strike made him stagger and the blow forced his head to the side. For seconds, his eyes met the boy's.

The boy swallowed uncomfortably when he saw the smile on the man's face.

"He fights with honor and dies a glorious death, like a true champion of the arena" the dark-skinned teenager stated quietly.

Two slaves dragged in the corpses of the fallen, one half of the prisoner's face being a bloody mess of flesh and bones and broken teeth. He wore a strange necklace, two leather strings with roughly-carved pearls; the boy was close enough to catch a glimpse of the carvings.

They were celtic. His father had been a celt.

The sick feeling in his stomach had made way for emptiness and cold.

Quickly, he reached out to grab the necklace, attaching it to his own neck with a swift movement.

If the dark-skinned spectator had seen anything, he did not say anything about it.

**H**e hardly felt his own legs when he stepped over to the gate.

His opponent's name flew past him as well as his own, the crowd's insults towards the weaker opponent or the creaking sound when the gate fell shut behind him.

The stolen necklace around his throat seemed to be heavier than the weights Doctore had them train with usually.

If his opponent had started laughing at the sight of the other gladiator being a teenager trembling in fear, he hid it well beneath his helmet.

"Fight with honor", the other one had said.

His opponent's first blow missed.

The boy was smaller and quicker, and he was aware of that; he managed to avoid the other's spear a second time, but this time the blade ran across his chest. The crowd cheered, something hot dripped along his skin and into the sand, the cut burning in pain.

He blocked the third and fourth time his opponent stepped forward, but that had made him end up in a corner; the spear hit his upper arm with deadly closeness and he could feel the blade slipping off the bone. The pain took away his breath for a time that probably was only a few seconds but felt like ages. His opponent, though, did not seem willingly to end their fight that fast – he obviously wanted to give the audience a show. He stepped back and allowed the boy to pick up his blade.

The blood on his skin felt sticky.

The crowd's cheers became louder when he managed to get back on his feet, his left arm dangling useless at his side, and that noise seemed to vibrate through his veins.

His gaze flickered over to the blood-stained sand where the prisoner had died.

_He fought with honor and died a true champion._

He charged.

**T**he gladiator effortlessly changed his spear over to his left hand and with brute force the man's fist hit his chest, then his head. He could hear his ribs cracking and it took him a while to realize that the screams he heard came from his own lips.

Behind the helmet, his opponent's eyes were smiling.

He fought himself back to his feet once more, clinging to his sword – strangely, his thoughts still were perfectly clear.

_His position was disadvantageous. His opponent was taller, stronger and had him backed up in a corner, and his intact arm already tired from blocking the other's attacks._

_Taller…_

He had his back up against the wall, but it didn't have to stay that way.

He blocked his opponent's next attack, his ribs protested achingly and he used the momentum of the other's blow to push himself up and away from the wall in a turning movement that brought him out of the other's reach and caused his opponent to stagger forward. With all strength left he pushed his blade downwards, hitting the taller man at the gap between his shoulder and back armor, driving his blade deep into his back.

The gladiator made a sound that seemed almost surprised, his breathing suddenly having turned into a death rattle. He made an unsteady movement as if he wanted to grab the blade from behind his back, then fell and did not get up again.

Slowly, a puddle of blood spread under him. Surprised silence was hanging in the air.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The people in the crowd were jumping up and down, screaming his name as if they had all gone insane at the same very moment, cheering at him as if he was Mars himself, and he was standing there, right in the middle of the arena, halfway deaf from the noise and the blows he had taken, until he realized that the thundering sound in his ears was his own heart, beating along with the chanting of the crowd.

_They love me. Fuck the gods, they love me._

He turned around to face the gate and caught a glimpse of the dark-skinned fellow gladiator behind it; they exchanged a grin.

The blade slipped from his fingers, his arms fell down and before he even touched the ground he had lost his consciousness.

**W**hen he woke up, everything was quiet.

Every muscle in his body was aching; he felt the rough fabric of bandages on his skin and could smell herbs in the air.

Somewhere far away, he could hear the noise of the daily exercises.

_The ludus._

Slowly, a shadow formed in front of his eyes.

"Am I a gladiator now?" he muttered, his throat feeling sore.

Oenomaus laughed, showing brilliant white teeth.

"At least you fought like one" he answered, "With honor. I'm looking forward to facing you myself one day."

He quietly closed the door behind him when he left.

A barely visible smile flashed across the boy's face; he was hardly able for anything else, and even that hurt.

In his ears, the chanting of the crowd still echoed, his name ascending into heavens out of a thousand throats, while his eyes fell shut again.

_Gannicus!_

_Gannicus!_

_Gannicus…_


	2. Resurrectio

**POV: Gannicus**

_Gannicus!_

_Gannicus!_

The crowd's cheers echoed in his ears.

_Gannicus!_

He could hear himself laughing.

_Gannicus!_

Not a sound left his throat; his lips were dessicated and chapped; he could hardly feel his own tongue.

_Gannicus!_

His fingers reached to grab an imaginary weapon; _if you put down your sword in the arena you'll die_, but he had done so before and the crowd had loved it.

_Gannicus!_

The cheering seemed strangely distant.

The sudden movement seemed to rip the bone of his forearm out from under his skin; he wasn't sure whether the screams were the crowd's or his own.

"Gannicus!"

From one moment to the other, the pressure on his shoulders was relieved. His breathing was a quiet whimper, and the world turned dark.

"Tell me your name."

It took him a while to realize that someone was talking to him.

Around him, he could hear whispers and voices, the rustling of silk clothes.

"Your name" the voice repeated mercilessly.

"Gannicus" he whispered.

The air tasted of dust and blood.

That was good; blood meant he had done his job right.

Someone placed a mug at his lips and reality hit him with brute force.

_No._

Of course he had always been aware that he'd one day die on the sands as an amusement of the crowd, but his imagination had not included a cross.

He tried to turn his head away, but someone held him down.

"You need to drink."

_I don't want to._

His voice refused to work.

_Fuck you, get off me, I don't want to._

The shadows in front of his eyes were moving dimly.

_Gannicus…_

He barely felt water running down his throat.

"Keep him straight so he can breathe easier."

Something touched his fingers, just barely touching his skin, feeling strangely numb.

"I'll take care of his hands."

The noise in his ears became less and less until it was gone.

**POV: Gaius**

The tiny girl was curled up on blank sheets.

Soft, golden hair framed her face, the small hands were clenched to fists, rosy lips slightly opened in her sleep.

The room was quiet. The windows were opened and far away the noises of the city at night could be heard; a soft wind was sweeping through the curtains.

The air tasted of dog roses, rosemary and summer nights.

He had placed his forearms on the girl's bed and was watching her. Actually he couldn't recall for how long he had been doing that; his legs felt numb due to the unusual position, but he had been through worse.

No noise could be heard aside from the girl's low breathing, and yet he did not need to turn around to know they were not alone.

"I don't recall honorable roman women wandering their villas at night" he said quietly.

"This one woke up and missed her husband" Cornelia replied, her voice as quiet as his and entirely calm.

She walked over to him and her daughter's bed.

The moonlight falling through the windows framed her features in silver light – the high cheekbones, the prominent, but not unsightly nose, her dark eyes and the elegant line of her jaw.

She did not say a word, only placed her hand on his shoulder and pulled his head against her waist. Softly, her fingers ran through the short hair at the back of his head. Gaius closed his eyes and allowed himself to be swept away by the scent of her skin.

She did not have to say anything to make sure he understood her.

_You were gone for too long._

Of course she'd never have said that aloud. She knew why he had left the city and why it had taken Crassus' patronage for him to come back.

None of her letters had stated something like "I miss you"; that would not have been her way anyway. Down to the point, she had reported to him what had happened in Rome - _your sister married, our child is a girl, we call her Iulia._

Her fingers rested on his neck, drawing small circles.

"You're back" she said quietly.


	3. Amicita

_**H**is father had been a gladiator._

Unable to take his eyes off the recruits at the training yard, the boy stared at them.

Ulpius, their doctore, went up and down between them, whip in his hand, watching carefully over every move, every wrong footstep.

The boy narrowed his eyes and glanced back over his shoulder, but until now it didn't seem like his dominus had further instructions, so he could keep watching the recruits.

He would never be one of them.

_Too small_, his former dominus had said – not the Batiatus one, but the one at Neapolis, _too small, too slim, he'll never be a gladiator._

So they had put him up for sale again, and only by chance the dominus of a ludus from Capua had come across the market – not in search for gladiators, but for some random boy to fetch the weapons and to clean up behind the recruits.

_The lower quality wares from Neapolis will be sufficient._

"Gannicus!"

Ulpius' voice made him flinch.

"Swords!"

Quickly, the boy scurried over to the chest where the wooden training swords were kept.

The recruits had formed a circle; Barcas and one of the newer ones (he didn't bear the mark yet, his dark skin exposing him as being of Nubian decent) stood between them.

He handed them their weapons and quickly retreated to the shadowy place below the balcony.

**T**he sun had set already when Ulpius ended the training.

He was waiting in a corner between the stone walls – for the new recruit, the one that had fought Barcas today.

"Wait!"

Hastily he grabbed his arm; the dark-skinned boy flinched.

He wasn't that much older than Gannicus himself, as he noticed; maybe a year or two.

"Don't step up to me from behind again!" the boy hissed and freed himself, "What do you want?"

Behind the bars at the wine cellar, two girls were sitting on the stairs that led up to the main house. They were giggling; both had the same dark hair, one with darker skin, the other one with noticeable green eyes. Both were a few years younger than Gannicus; eight or nine years maybe.

Despite their attempt to keep quiet, their voices floated through the cellar.

"No, really, Diona, that's a terrible idea, if dominus finds out-"

"It's just wine, they'll never notice, don't be a fun killer, Naevia-"

Gannicus made a face. _Girls._

He grabbed the Nubian's arm again and pulled him out of sight from the two troublemakers.

"You need to help me" he said, but stopped again, unsure how to explain what he wanted.

The Nubian's eyebrows twitched slightly, but he didn't say anything.

"You need to teach me how to fight. Like a gladiator."

"Have you lost mind?" the Nubian hissed, "You're not a recruit, you're a slave!"

"We all are" Gannicus replied promptly and resisted the urge to bite his tongue immediately, "I want to become a gladiator! I only need to show the dominus that I can be of use, maybe he'll agree, please, consider it special training for the test, no one ever needs to know, I can steal the swords from the armory chests…"

"You'll never be a gladiator" the Nubian returned, "You're small and as scrawny as a dry twig, you're not-"

"The dominus found you in the pits!" Gannicus hissed back, "Did anyone think you couldn't become a real gladiator as well?"

The Nubian stared at him and seemed to decide whether to throttle him right here or to call the guards first.

**T**he Nubian's name was Oenomaus, and he was fifteen, three years older than Gannicus.

That evening, he had taken him by the neck and only stopped shaking him because Gannicus had promised not to talk about the pits again, and not to tell anyone about their secret meetings, and since then, they had been training.

It was surprisingly easy to steal a wooden sword from the armory every now and then or to keep it hidden somewhere outside the chests. It was a good deal more difficult, though, to find a place to actually train. They couldn't use the training yard for obvious reasons, and so they had to find somewhere else where they wouldn't be seen or heard directly; often enough, they had quietly sneaked over to the bathing house or the like.

Tonight, it was the wine cellar – one of the guars had forgotten to lock the gate, and there was enough room between the shelves.

He blocked the next blow and felt his hands tingling from the impact.

"You need to keep your guard up" Oenomaus insisted, stepping forward for his next attack.

They had not managed to steal a shield for him, and he could hardly lift the heavy wood anyway; that wouldn't change any time soon, too, since he couldn't take part in the exercises at the training yard, so Oenomaus trained him to fight with two swords, as he did himself.

_It's no great difference_, he had explained to him, _You just need to move faster and don't let them hit you._

Oenomaus' next blow knocked one of the swords out of his hand, though, and it landed between the amphorae with a crashing noise.

"Fuck!"

Gannicus scurried over to the shelf, eyeing the shards and the dark red liquid that dripped onto the floor.

"Nevermind, I'll just throw that off the cliff…"

When he turned around again, he looked into the eyes of his dominus.

Titus Batiatus wasn't a man who placed great value in jewelry or expensive fabrics when it came to his clothes; not that he would have need of those, since he was, equipped with the keen features and the watchful eyes of a hawk, already an imposing figure when he stood at the balcony and watched the recruits, and no one ever wanted to feel his gaze longer than necessary upon himself.

Catching said look when he stood directly in front of someone, was a tad more impressive.

The boy swallowed and could feel himself shrink a few inches.

"Dominus?" he asked carefully, "I, uh, didn't mean…"

"Seize tongue!" Titus turned over to the Nubian without looking at him again.

Oenomaus seemed to wish the ground to swallow him up.

"Would you care to explain this to me?" Titus asked.

The boys exchanged a quick look over his shoulder.

"I made him to!" Gannicus quickly replied without paying too much attention to whether he was addressed or not, "I want to become a gladiator! My father was one, and I watched the recruits' training, it's all my fault…"

Damn, how long had he been watching them?

Titus' eyebrows twitched slightly.

"Didn't you tell me you have been in a Ludus before?"

Gannicus flinched again.

"Well, yes…"

"And what makes you think you had a more valuable opinion on this than a well-known lanista?"

"Apologies, dominus" Oenomaus said quietly, "but didn't you teach me that every man is driven by something and needs to pursue that goal?"

Gannicus held his breath (while some part of his brain was wondering what in the name of Jupiter Oenomaus meant with that).

Titus turned over to him again.

"Six lashes" he said through his teeth, "For each of you, for the thievery. When you're recovered, I wish to see both of you join the recruits. Understood?"

A reluctant grin appeared on Gannicus' features.

"…thanks, dominus?"

Titus came one step closer and Gannicus had to resist the urge to step back.

"Do not take my generosity for kindness, boy" he said quietly, but with a voice as sharp as a razor, "Should your training show to be a bad investment, you will end your life in the mines. Are we clear on that?"


End file.
